


After

by suchanadorer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/335265">What He Likes</a>.</p>
<p>Sherlock finds Irene's phone while unpacking and it leads him to ask John about what happened between the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

John had gotten as far as packing everything into boxes before Mycroft appeared in the doorway one day and said that it was unnecessary, that the flat was paid for far into the future and John didn’t need to think about that. So he didn’t. He left the boxes standing where they were and walked away from 221B.

He kept the key, though, and it still worked after more than three years. 

It worked after the horrible, cold seconds when Sherlock was falling, and the years when John had to learn how to move and breathe and live his life again.

It worked after his time with Mary, his time with her illness, his time with himself after she’d left.

It worked after he’d left the flat he’d shared with her, empty of more than just their relationship, and moved back to Baker Street. Back to Mrs. Hudson, back to the skull.

Back to Sherlock.

The skull is watching them now, returned to its rightful home on the mantelpiece. There are boxes on almost every other surface. It’s late morning, and the flat is filled with golden light from the windows, filtered through the thin fabric of the curtains. Sherlock picks up as many books as he can, tilting his head and twisting them so he can read the spines before replacing them on the shelves. His suit jacket is folded and draped over the back of his chair, and he’s rolled the sleeves of his soft, grey shirt up to the elbows.

John sets a pile of papers on the corner of the coffee table and wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, pausing to watch Sherlock. The suntan that had given him a rain of freckles across his nose and cheekbones is fading; his eyes had seemed even paler against the darker shade of his skin those first days back. 

He’s thinner now, two notches drawn in on his belt. John can see his spine when he curves his back to dig through a box, but the dark circles under his eyes have begun to disappear and the hollows under his cheekbones are filling in again.

His eyes are calmer now, letting his gaze settle on things, no longer constantly scanning about him, even at home. His hair is longer than John has ever seen it, but when Sherlock pushes it back out of his eyes there is a stripe near his left temple where the dark curls been shaved and begun to grow out again. There is also an angry, pink scar that runs up Sherlock’s forearm which John hasn’t asked about yet. 

The way he moves, though. That hasn’t changed. He’s still fluid, almost dancing around the flat. . There’d been a set to his shoulders when he’d returned that’s only now starting to disappear and John’s not at all sorry to see it go.

John stands and turns to take in his own reflection in the mirror. There are circles under his eyes, too, and he’s thinner. He shakes his head and walks toward the kitchen. Sherlock pauses, a new pile of books hanging in mid-air.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?” he calls after John, his voice loud in the quiet flat.

“The kitchen. I bought tea and biscuits. Do you want?” 

Sherlock nods, which John doesn’t hear but he pulls two mugs out of the cupboard anyway. He washes them while the water boils and carries one in each hand with the biscuits tucked under his arm, still in the package.

Sherlock has abandoned his box of books. He is silhouetted against the living room window, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other holding a mobile phone. 

Irene Adler’s mobile phone.

”You kept it. Why?” Sherlock asks, watching John as he sets one of the mugs on an empty corner of the desk, his eyes fixed on the phone.

”It was yours.” John looks around, distracted, then gives up and sets his mug on a stack of file folders before ripping open the plastic packaging on the biscuits.

“It was hers,” Sherlock’s counters, sliding it open. Nothing happens; the screen stays dark and the phone is silent.

“She was dead,” John mumbles around a biscuit and flops back into his chair, dust swirling up around him.

“So was I.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twists in a smirk. John leans forward in his chair.

“No, wait. I meant - no, she was relocated to America.” Sherlock gives him that look, _we both know better_ , and John is silent.

“Not dead, either, then?” John presses his lips together and nods, then lifts his head to look at Sherlock. “Ah. ‘It would’ve taken Sherlock Holmes himself...’” John says, nodding slowly as Sherlock smiles at him through the steam rising from his tea. “Right. So, alive, then.”

“Very much so. I met her in Stockholm about eight months after...” Sherlock lets the sentence trail off when he sees John pause, tea mug poised half way to his mouth. “She sent me a text when I was in Stockholm. ‘Let’s have dinner.’” He sneers.

“So you went to see her, even though you knew she’d worked with Moriarty?”

“She was on the run. There was no danger in a meeting.”

“And you liked the puzzle.” John points at him as he talks even though Sherlock has turned to face the window. “You wanted to know how she found you and what she wanted.”

“It’s true. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, apparently,” Sherlock says over his shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the rough exterior of the phone, over diamonds and gold embellishments.

“Wait, she was angry with you? For what?”

“For leaving you.” Sherlock is very still in front of the window, one hand resting on the glass to hold the curtain open. His other hand hangs at his side, the phone threatening to slip from his fingers to fall to the floor.

“She brought you there to talk about me,” John sighs. He takes a deep breath and blows it out loudly through his nose as he stands but doesn’t move closer to Sherlock. “What did she say?”

Sherlock is silent. His breathing is steady and controlled as he watches the traffic through the window, forehead pressed against the glass.

“Sherlock.”

“You slept with her. She said that you two – “ Sherlock waves the phone around but doesn’t finish the sentence. “Is it true?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

John swallows, runs his tongue along his lower lip as he considers his answer. “Yes.”

Sherlock words come in fits and starts as he tries to find his voice. “And the things that she said happened when you... That’s also true?”

John swallows but doesn’t answer. Sherlock turns and leans against the window. John’s head is lowered and he’s worrying at the bed of his thumbnail, shifting his weight. Sherlock sets the phone on his desk and pushes off from the window to stand in front of him. John nods but doesn’t look up. The back of his neck flushes and he rakes a hand through his hair, rubbing his neck to try to hide it.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says, and John looks up at him without raising his head. “She said you said my name. Why?”

“I don’t know. I- she. She used your shampoo and your dressing gown. She smelled like you and she sounded like you and she–” John stops and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Those sounds, those smells. That was attractive to you,” Sherlock asks tentatively.

“Yes.” John rolls his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back before he lifts his head, meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

“Why? They’re mine. I’m not a woman.”

“I thought I only wanted women.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John takes a deep breath and his jaw clenches but he stands his ground. 

“And now?”

“Now I know better,” John says, pursing his lips as his voice cracks. “Now I know what I want. I’ve known for years.”

Sherlock moves closer, right into John’s space. His pupils widen as his eyes search over John’s face.

“What do you want, John?” 

John’s nostrils flare slightly as he breathes. He juts his chin, fights to keep his composure in the face of Sherlock’s question.

“You.” The word is barely out of his mouth before Sherlock kisses him, presses his lips against John’s. They stay that way for a moment, only their mouths touching, before Sherlock freezes and starts to pull back but John’s hands fly to his arms, holding him in place. Sherlock relaxes as John slides his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders, then up again to cup Sherlock’s face. John pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers, his voice thick as his eyes flit closed. John draws his thumbs along Sherlock’s cheeks and he gasps as tears roll down to meet them.

“What is it?”

“I thought I could, but I don’t know if I can be that for you, John. I would give you anything you asked of me now, but I’ve never-“

“Hey. Hey.” John gives Sherlock’s head a little shake and he opens his eyes again, but there is fear there when he looks at John. “I told you, when we first met, that it was all fine. It still is. There’s only one thing I want from you.” 

Sherlock’s mouth hangs open and he takes a deep, gulping breath as he waits.

“Don’t ever leave me again. We’ll sort the rest out, we always have.” Sherlock nods as he leans in to kiss him again. Their noses bump against each other and when Sherlock’s lips meet John’s he finds that John is smiling, so he smiles too, parting his lips as John’s tongue slips out and presses against them. Sherlock sets his hands carefully on John’s shoulders. John tilts his head to slot their mouths together, deepening the kiss as he pushes a hand up into Sherlock’s hair, the other moving down to rest over his heart. Sherlock moves his hands down John’s back to settle with his arms around his waist, pulling them together. 

They stand together in the middle of the room for long minutes, exploring each other’s mouths while their hands rustle against clothing. John’s hand is trapped between them. He pushes it up under the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock pulls his head back.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for more than this yet,” he says, looking down at John. His lips are wet and swollen, and he grazes his teeth over the lower one.

John nods. “But this was okay?” 

Sherlock gives a small, breathy laugh, and he looks at John’s mouth as he speaks, resting his hands on John’s hips.

“This was extraordinary. I never thought I’d want this, never thought I’d find someone who inspired it in me. You are a conductor not only of light, but of heat as well.” He steps back, releasing John from their embrace. John lets his hand trail down Sherlock’s chest before he pulls back completely. 

“We’ll make this work, Sherlock. It won’t be like anything either of us has done before.”

“It rarely is,” Sherlock says, smiling. John’s eyes leave Sherlock and sweep around the room.

“Tea’s gone cold. Shall I make more, then we can get back to work?” He huffs out a laugh when Sherlock tenses. “I mean the flat. There’s still lots of things to unpack.” John leans past him to pick up the abandoned mug, then he collects his own and turns towards the kitchen.

Sherlock stands a moment and watches him go before he pushes up his sleeves and turns back to the desk. His eyes land on Irene’s phone, glittering in the sunlight. He opens the top drawer of and sweeps it unceremoniously off the desktop before returning to his books.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to malcs for betaing above and beyond the call of duty.


End file.
